The Museum
by JesusFreakft
Summary: Rumors of a curator older than the exhibits. Of his loneliness, and of the pain he's endured. When an old friend hears the rumors and seeks him out, what will she find? (Set between The Angels Take Manhattan and The Snowmen.)


**A/N: Hey guys! So, near the end of _The Day of the Doctor_ , the Doctor mentions that he could be a museum curator. That idea is what sparked this fanfic into being. At first it was only going to be funny bits of the Doctor's curating, but then, somewhere along the way, a character showed up and a little plot developed...and anyway, here is the result. I hope you like it!**

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A woman with short brown hair wearing a colorful, baggy top set her hands on the counter, turning her head to watch a tentacled alien wriggle across the tiled museum floor.

The incredibly-skinny, brown-skinned man behind the counter tapped impatiently. "Can I help you, miss?"

The woman turned to him, her face portraying both stubbornness and uncertainty. "Yes please," she said. "Is the Doctor here?"

"Yes, miss. He's giving a tour now. It's the last of the day, I'm afraid." His expression clearly conveyed that she should have gotten here sooner.

"Thank you," she said. "Where is he now?"

"I'm not sure, miss." The skinny man thought a moment. "Around the sculpture gallery, maybe. Try in that direction, past the paintings." He pointed.

"Thank you," she said again, leaving and starting to walk hurriedly in the direction he had indicated.

She hurried past aliens looking at the art and old artifacts, making noises that were probably alien languages.

A wild rumor. A great deal of tiresome hunting, of failure time and time again until finally a small lead. A deal with a reluctant alien merchant in a backstreet London warehouse.

She'd come to the museum straight from the spaceship that had brought her to this planet. She might've felt agitated if she'd come to see the museum, might have found a place to sleep and come back tomorrow. But she was here to see a curator who, they said, was older than most of the exhibits on display.

Rounding a corner, she saw a clustered group up ahead. She saw him while she was still a ways off. She could tell by the way he waved his arms, flapping his long coat. She could tell by the way he spoke in a voice that was loud, excited, and a little bit cheeky. She could tell by his boyish face that she made out as she drew closer, although it was not the same face she had known him by.

"We had quite a time retrieving this old relic, I'll tell you that!" The Doctor's voice echoed down the hall as he gestured to the stone sculpture on a pedestal beside him. "The local who took us there had a rather short-lived time...although he was never really alive to begin with, and she wasn't a real witch..." He paused. "Anyway! That's quite fascinating, oh! And over here we can see an _actual_ cave drawing of an old Sontaran battle plan. It would've been a lot more interesting if they'd spent their efforts for more peaceful purposes instead of trying to blow up other species...but we all know how that's ended up today."

The brown-haired woman had quietly joined the group during this rambling and now stood with a dozen or so others as the Doctor asked for questions.

"No, that is not a statue of me," he answered one man. "You'll notice that it has four arms while I," he waved his, "have two. Any other questions?"

He talked for a little while longer, answering several questions, but the woman just watched him, the way he ran his hand through his now-brown hair, the way he laughed, the way he passionately explained about these historic pieces.

Soon he moved the group along toward the hall of paintings she'd just passed through.

"Normally there's a weeping angel right here," he said, pointing to a bare spot by one wall. "I wonder where he got off to..."

From the way everyone exchanged nervous glances the woman gathered a weeping angel to be noteworthy, and not in a good way.

The Doctor laughed. "I'm only joking. The weeping angel is somewhere in the west corridor." He started to round a corner to the paintings, paused, and added, "Hopefully."

Everyone hurried to catch up with him, as though he would protect them if a weeping angel did appear. The woman knew that he probably would.

"This is a Horatio Valiiir painting," the Doctor declared, indicating one framed artwork hanging on the wall. "Look at the exquisite design, and the landscape! Now, I've been to the Eye of Orion a few times, mind you, but this man..." He pointed multiple times at the painting, as though repeatedly at a loss for words. Finally he said, "Horatio Valiiir is a brilliant painter. You will never see the Eye of Orion the same again."

They continued down the hall, the Doctor saying at least a few words about each artwork. He stopped before one and said in a suddenly quiet voice. "This one is my favorite in the museum."

The woman, looking between two people, saw a tightness in his face and pain in his eyes. He gazed at the country landscape with a dull, yet focused longing, a wish that he knew could never come true, a hope for which he already knew the answer.

"Why do you like that one?" spoke up a boy. "What's so special about a lake?"

"It's not a lake," said the Doctor, his voice growing gentle. "It's a pond."

"Why do you like it so much?" the boy insisted, looking at the painting beside it portraying some terrible creature. "It's just a pond."

"Yes," said the Doctor, not very loudly at all. "Just a pond. But sometimes the biggest things come in the smallest packages."

The boy shrugged, uncomprehending, and glanced around at the other pictures.

The Doctor lingered his gaze on the artwork, then turned and said, "Well, let's carry on, shall we? It'll be closing time soon."

They continued down the hallway and saw the half-dozen remaining pieces, then the Doctor let them go and he followed as most of them headed toward the exit. Nearly to the hefty carved doors, the woman stopped and turned around. The others continued and left the museum, leaving her nearly alone on the wide floor.

The Doctor had stopped at the counter in middle of the lobby. He exchanged words with someone and laughed, then turned and walked back toward the museum exhibits. He paused and looked down the hall of paintings, looking, the woman somehow knew, at his favorite painting of the pond. Had something happened there? Had the Doctor lost someone or something there? Perhaps, somehow, the Doctor had even lost the pond itself.

The woman wanted to run over to him, to hug him tightly and ask how things had been. Did he remember her? Whatever had happened to that ginger boy who'd traveled with them? But instead she just stood there, across the room from him.

Finally the Doctor brought up a hand and shook his head, as though trying to shake away thoughts. He produced a ring of keys from a pocket, spun them around one finger, and strode in the other direction with his customary light, cheerful steps. As he disappeared into another corridor he began to whistle.

"Oh Doctor," the woman said softly. "I can see the rumors were true. Things have not been easy for you. But you've survived quite a few dangers, and quite a bit of pain, since I met you. Whatever's happened," her voice cracked, "I know you'll make it this time too." She wiped away a few tears from her eyes. "I waited a long time for Heathrow Airport. I suppose there are lots of people who wait, like me. Always have hope. Remember that. And like you always said," she paused, put a hand to her mouth for a second, and then whispered, "Brave heart, Doctor."


End file.
